


you got pretty eyes but I know you're wrong

by StormDancer, sunniskies



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 17 year-old Harry, 21 year-old Zayn, Age Difference, Alternate Universe, M/M, Tumblr Prompt, so not that bad an age difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:06:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormDancer/pseuds/StormDancer, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunniskies/pseuds/sunniskies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry smiles brightly, and blinks at him. "I'm good with my hands," he says in a low voice, gazing at Zayn from underneath his lashes. Suddenly his eyes don't seem so green anymore, they're dark and dangerous, and Zayn nearly chokes on his food. <em>Seventeen seventeen seven-fucking-teen</em>, he drones in his head as he downs his water, pointedly looking away from Harry</p>
            </blockquote>





	you got pretty eyes but I know you're wrong

**Author's Note:**

> From the prompt: "could u write some zarry where 21yr Zayn babysits 16yr Harry and they fuck?" So we fiddled with the ages a little and added some feelings. But same difference, I hope! 
> 
>  
> 
> Not ours, the boys belong to themselves, don't show to anyone.

The call comes midway through “Chocolate”, just when the guitar is picking up and Matt Healey’s really crooning. Because she's the kind of girl who's incapable of not being on her phone one hundred percent of the day—Zayn thinks it's a Styles thing, Harry and Anne both do it too—Gemma picks up the call. She gives Zayn a 'wait, babe' pat, and gets up off the living room couch where they'd been lying to wander away to answer it. 

Zayn, because he is the best best friend anyone could ask for, pauses the iPod they'd been sharing, and takes out his earbud to wait. He wishes he had brought a book. Gemma's also incapable of talking on the phone for less than five minutes at a time; she's even managed it with Zayn, which Louis claims is actually impossible. He’s here for the long haul.

He tips his head back so he's staring up at the old, familiar Styles ceiling. It hasn't changed since he was twelve, and Gemma invited him over for the first time. It's a good ceiling, he thinks. Seen him do a lot of stupid shit, and never brought it up once (he might still be a little high from the weed he had snuck over and he and Gemma had shared in the backyard. More deja vu). Like that time he had decided to shave his initials into his hair. Or the time he and Gemma had kissed, all of thirteen, and he had realized he was gay about that moment. He's lucky she forgave him for that, really. Probably helped that she started laughing as soon as they pulled away. Or the time Harry had tried a bit of his beer at Gemma's going away to college party, and Harry had made a face and nearly spit it out onto Zayn, and Zayn hadn't stopped laughing the whole night, even when Harry had made those ridiculous puppy dog eyes at him. 

"It's her boyfriend," comes a voice from above him. Zayn lifts his head up, looks over. Speak of the devil, and all that. Though no one's ever called Harry Styles the devil. He still looks sweet and innocent at seventeen, curly hair and cheeks that haven't lost all their baby fat and those dimples that are going to kill someone someday. "She'll be _forever_."

"Yeah, I know," Zayn smirks. "Been friends for ten years 'n all that." 

Harry seems to be immune to teasing after all these years, because he just smiles wider at Zayn and wanders over to the couch. It's probably one of the side effects of being Gemma's little brother. She and Zayn would never stop teasing him. In their defnse, though, je just made it too easy, with all of his quirks. Like having to shake his hair out violently what seems like every five seconds, like he does now. 

Zayn scoots over on the couch so that Harry sit down, and Harry immediately snatches the iPod out of Zayn's hand. 

"Hey!" Zayn huffs. "Watch it, would ya?" 

"Sorry," Harry dimples, eyes sparkling, very clearly not sorry at all. "What's on the hipster playlist today?" 

"Nothing you’ve have heard of," Zayn rolls his eyes, and Harry sticks his lip out. 

"You don't know that. Ooh the 1975! Love them." 

They sit on the couch for a while, until Harry eventually convinces Zayn to listen to some song he's claiming will "change his life." Which of course Zayn knows isn't true, but Gemma's taking forever on the phone and he's bored, so he figures he might as well. And it's not terrible, some song by Atlas Genius, so Zayn lets Harry control the playlist for a while, even if he stays close to him to make sure he doesn’t do anything too outlandish. He watches as Harry manages to do his curl-shake while keeping the headphones in, which Zayn thinks is mildly impressive, considering the wildness of it. He's just got so _much_ hair, Zayn doesn’t even know how Harry deals with it. But he also sort of wants to pull on one of his curls, so maybe that's the intended effect. 

And it's not like it's ever mattered, so Zayn reaches out and yanks on a strand, which makes Harry jump a little. "Hey!" he yelps, and Zayn grins back, slow and lazy. Being home feels like that, like everything's slowed down. 

"Too cool for me now, Haz?"

"No one's too cool for you," Harry replies. Zayn, who was all ready to put together a scathing retort, hesitates. That was a compliment. He wasn't prepared for that. 

"Thanks," he says at last, and Harry dimples further, and ducks his head down to look at the iPod. Shit, the kid got cute. Zayn had always known he would grow up well—look at Gemma, he's not even attracted to women and he knows she's hot—but still. He hadn’t really expected him to be so tall and lanky and just this side of built.

They listen to the music for another maybe five minutes, Harry handing back the iPod then completely undoing the effect by trying to mess with it while it’s in Zayn's lap. Then Gemma walks back in, looks at them, and sits down on top of Zayn. He gives an exaggerated, "oof!" and she elbows him in the ribs. It's so lovely and familiar it almost hurts. 

"I've got to go, Zee," she tells him, and then, when he hits her with his best pleading look, "Tom's having a crisis! He needs me."

Hos before bros, he gets it. "Fine." As she's still on top of him, though, he doesn't move. Not that he could move to the side anyway, because somehow Harry's pressed against him there. These Styles siblings, he thinks fondly, never let you get any breathing room. 

"So can you stay with Harry?" she continues.

"Gem! I'm seventeen!" 

"Please?" she asks Zayn, ignoring Harry completely. 

"He is seventeen," Zayn agrees. "I'm pretty sure he can stay home alone."

"Please?" she says again, and flutters her lashes, pressing her lips together in a pout. It's utterly ridiculous, and Zayn is hit but a wave of love for her, this girl who's stuck with him for forever. 

But he still hesitates, because he likes Harry, he does, he's an ace kid, but if Zayn’s not hanging here with Gemma he wouldn't mind going home and crashing. "Gem, he's an adult."

"He's right here," Harry inserts, pointedly. "But you could stay, Zayn. If you—I mean, if it'll get her to shut up."

"It will!"

Zayn considers. He’s not entirely sure why Harry’s changed his tune, but he can always leave as soon as she's gone. He’s pretty sure Harry won’t tattle on him, he’s cool like that. "Yeah, sure, whatever."

"Thanks!" she springs to her feet then, brushes her lips against his cheek. "I owe you forever."

"You owe me a pub night," he calls after her as she runs out of the room. Her laugh echoes down the hall. 

After Gemma rushes out the door in a flurry of bleached hair and jangling car keys, Harry turns to grin at Zayn. 

"Just us two," he smiles, and Zayn swears there's a bit of a purr behind his voice. 

"Uh, yeah," Zayn says, and disentangles Harry's foot from around his ankle, scooting down the couch a few inches for good measure. He's getting too distracted by the thickness of Harry's dark lashes and the way he's letting them blink slowly and heavily. He’s seventeen. Gemma would kill him if she knew what he was thinking. He’ll kill himself for what he’s thinking, even if it’s not serious. He’s twenty-one. He should be able to quash vague attractions to teenagers. 

"Do you have any food around here?" Zayn grumbles, half as a distraction, and Harry springs to life. 

"Of course! I'll make us something! How about some pasta and a fresh fruit salad?" Harry exclaims, already heading off to the kitchen. Zayn doesn't move an inch, because he's pretty sure Fridays are meant for lounging and he intends to do just that. It’s not like he’s babysitting and needs to supervise or anything. Because Harry’s an adult. Sort of. An attractive teenager. 

"Sure," he calls, laughing inwardly at Harry's endless enthusiasm. He shoves one of the earbuds back in, wondering idly if he can get Harry to make him brownies. Probably. Maybe he'll mention it later. 

He gets through an album before he realizes he hasn't heard much from Harry. And he knows he's not a kid anymore—has been trying very pointedly not to know it, not that that's working—but Harry's always been more than a little clumsy and he wouldn't put it past him to have accidentally cut himself and be bleeding out on the ground right now. Gemma would probably be mad if that happened. Zayn wouldn't be too happy either. So Zayn gets up with a groan, and wanders towards the kitchen. 

Harry has not cut himself. Instead, he's humming to himself as he chops some grapes in half, shimmying to the music only he can hear. He's quite good with his hips, Zayn can't help but notice, with those tight jeans he always wears, and his shirt hanging unbuttoned over it. He's also seventeen, Zayn tells himself sternly, and Zayn is better than that. So he looks away. 

And of course the kid has set a table, with two plates across from each other, and nicely folded napkins, and is that a candle? Shit, he's become even more of a homemaker. It's a little adorable, especially because if Gem was here Zayn and Gemma would probably just be eating peanut butter from the jar or something. But whatever Harry's making—or has made, there's a bowl on the table, neatly covered—it smells amazing. 

"Hey," he says, when Harry seems not to notice him, and is just dancing there, circling his hips like he knows what he's doing. Zayn really should not be thinking these things. "Whatcha making?"

"Zayn!" Harry jolts and freezes, but then he turns with a sheepish smile. "What are you doing? I was going to surprise you."

"Hungry," Zayn explains, because he figures no seventeen-year-old wants to hear that he was being checked up on. Instead, he wanders over to the counter, and grabs one of the grapes Harry's yet to cut. "Wanted to see where dinner was at."

"It's almost done, and don't eat those! We need them for the salad." Harry slaps playfully at Zayn's fingers, but he pulls his hand back before they make contact. 

"Too slow, babe," he laughs, "Always were." 

Harry's smile spreads over his face, long and slow, but there's something very much not childlike in it, something that says he knows exactly what he's saying when he says, his voice low enough that it sounds hoarse, "I'm faster now." 

Zayn takes a step away. He's got to stop projecting. Sure, Gemma's little brother is fit now. He's also seventeen. There are plenty of fit guys who are also legal. More legal. Seventeen is legal, he’s pretty sure. It’s just creepy as fuck. 

"So how long until dinner is ready?" he asks instead, and curses himself for how his voice has gone a little hoarse. Fucking seventeen. 

"Just need to finish chopping these. Can you get us some water?"

Zayn rolls his eyes, and pours them both some water. Then he pulls a beer out of the fridge for himself. The Styles's are cool like that.

"Can I have one too?" Harry asks. Zayn glances over his shoulder. Harry's got his eyes closed, and he looks like he's muttering something to himself. "I mean," he corrects, opening his eyes. "Can you grab me a beer too, Zayn?"

"Your parents all right with that?" Zayn asks, but he's already getting one out. He manages to balance all four drinks between his two hands as he goes over to the table. 

"Not a kid anymore," Harry states firmly, and scrapes the grapes off the cutting board and into a bowl. 

"I know that, Harry. You're all grown up and everything."

"Yeah. All grown up. Come sit down?" Harry puts the fruit salad on the table, then adjusts it minutely. He looks at Zayn—looks down, shit, since when has he been taller than Zayn?—and its almost like he's nervous. Zayn rolls his eyes, and slides into the seat across from him. 

Zayn digs into his pasta hungrily, and can't hold back a small moan when he tastes how good it is. "Shit, Haz, this is delicious," he mumbles, looking up to see Harry's eyes fixed on him. 

Harry smiles brightly, and blinks at him. "I'm good with my hands," he says in a low voice, gazing at Zayn from underneath his lashes. Suddenly his eyes don't seem so green anymore, they're dark and dangerous, and Zayn nearly chokes on his food. _Seventeen seventeen seven-fucking-teen_ , he drones in his head as he downs his water, pointedly looking away from Harry. 

"You alright?" Harry asks, and the deviousness has dropped out of his voice. Instead he's peering at Zayn worriedly, eyes round and very green again. Zayn doesn't understand how Harry can be so innocent and so _not_ at the same time. It's not fair. 

"Yeah," he coughs, and Harry reaches over and spoons salad onto his plate. 

"Gotta have your veggies, Zayn," he hums happily, arranging the tomatoes perfectly on the small pile of leaves on Zayn's plate. 

Zayn stares at the picture-perfect salad for a minute, and jumps when Harry's finger touch his arm lightly. Harry jerks them back, and Zayn raises his head to a hurt look in his eyes. 

"Sorry," Harry murmurs. “Is something wrong with the salad?" 

"No, no," Zayn shakes his head quickly, trying to clear the fog that's clouding his thoughts. "It's just—you're very domestic, you know that?" 

Harry looks puzzled for a second, like he's not sure how to take that, but then his face stretches wide easily. "I like to take care of you," he hums, lightly but deliberately brushing Zayn's arm again.

Zayn shivers a little. He can't stop staring at how the candlelight is dancing on Harry's face, emphasizing the hollows of his dimples. Harry watches him watch him, and shakes out his hair again quickly. The curls fan out around his face, a perfect rich chestnut color, one of them falling against the corner of his eye. Before his brain connects to his muscles, Zayn reaches forward and brushes the curl back into place, letting his fingers trail along Harry's cheekbone for a fraction of a second. This time Harry's the one to shiver. 

"Don't need looking after," Zayn says as he drops his hand. No. His hands are staying firmly on this side of the table from now on. To cement this, he takes a large bite of pasta. 

Harry watches him. Zayn makes a conscious effort to chew his pasta, not to slurp it off his fork like he sometimes does. 

"Think you do," Harry replies, thoughtfully. He takes a sip of his beer, and Zayn can see the effort it takes him not to make a face. It's more than a little adorable. Adorable, right. That's a good word. He's settling on that word for this Harry. 

"I'm twenty-one, I'm a legal adult. Thought I was supposed to be looking after you." 

"You can look after all my needs," Harry fucking purrs, and Zayn does not yelp at all. Especially as the next second, it's like he was never bloody leering. "But you kind of do, Zayn. I've known you as long as you've known Gem, you know. You've got a habit of, like, not eating."

"I eat." It's an old argument between him and Gemma. It's not like it’s a real problem or anything. He's just too lazy to cook most of the time when he can eat protein bars or ramen. And sometimes he gets wrapped up in a project and doesn't bother with food. It's not a thing. He doesn't need everyone yelling at him for it. He curls some pasta onto his fork, then eats it, sucking in the last of it. "See?"

"Yeah." Harry sounds like he's choking, but when Zayn raises his eyebrows at him he doesn't seem to have anything wrong with him. Just a little flushed, maybe, but he's probably not used to decent beer. Zayn very consciously does not consider other reasons for that flush. 

They manage to finish the rest of dinner without him or Harry choking to death, which Zayn counts a success. Even if Harry keeps letting his fingers drift over Zayn's arm, and Zayn can't take his eyes off the way Harry's pink lips wrap around his beer bottle, cheeks hollowing. Harry watches him while he drinks, and Zayn thinks that's unnecessary. Everything about Harry is unnecessary. 

"You wanna watch a movie?" Harry calls over his shoulder, hands buried in suds at the sink. Zayn finishes pouring the pasta into a Tupperware container and shoves it the fridge. 

"Sure," he nods, and Harry does a little excited shake of his hips. Zayn laughs because, adorable. "Just none of those cheesy romances, alright?" he warns. 

Harry grins over at him. "What, you don't like romance?" he asks, and unknowingly leaves a trail of soap bubbles across his cheek when he swipes at it. Zayn moves over to him, leaning against the edge of the counter. 

"You have soap on your face," Zayn points out and Harry reaches up to clean it off, but then looks down with a pout at his two dripping hands. 

"Here," Zayn rolls his eyes, and wipes it off with the pad off his thumb gently. It’s supposed to be platonic. He’s done it a million times before. But then Harry's eyes flutter shut for a moment, and Zayn forces himself to take his hand away. Harry's skin is ridiculously soft. He wonders if it's like that everywhere. Wonders what it would feel like to lift the corner of his shirt and run his fingers over the rise of his hipbones. Wonders what the different parts of his skin would feel like, under Zayn’s fingers and tongue.

Zayn turns away, striding over to the living room. This is turning out to be a much more difficult night than he imagined. 

"I'm choosing the movie," he calls over his shoulder, and Harry calls back, 

"No superheroes!"

Zayn chuckles to himself. Sometimes he does forget that Harry's known him for a long time, too. Even if a lot of it was tagging along after them, begging to be included. Though that had mainly stopped once Harry had hit high school, admittedly. Then, that one year they had overlapped, Zayn had always been a little bit in awe of how Harry had made friends. Zayn had friends, sure, but he had never had that magnetism Harry had always given out. 

Purely platonic magnetism, clearly, he clarifies to himself, and flips through the Styles's movie cabinet. He's finally settled on _Casablanca_ when Harry comes back in, holding a bowl of popcorn. 

"Casablanca?" Harry asks, leaning over Zayn's shoulder to look at the disc in his hands. "Though you didn't want romance."

Does he really need to be that close? Zayn doesn't think so, but there's no way to move away without making it obvious what he's doing, and he shouldn't need to do that. This is Harry. He's basically his big—nope, he stops that train of thought. Not even going to think that. He's stood in as an older male friend, he restarts in his brain, acted as a bit of a mentor when Harry needed one, rough-housing and teasing and tackling him to the ground sometimes. It's not like they've never been this close before. 

"Humphrey Bogart transcends genre," he retorts, and steals a handful of popcorn.

They settle in together on the couch easily—they've had years of practice. And because Harry is a Styles, he cuddles right up to Zayn, draping a leg across his lap and letting his head fall on his shoulder. Zayn's used to Harry's excessive touchiness, but tonight it's setting him on edge. He can feel Harry's warmth coursing through him—the guy's like a walking personal heater—and it's familiar as it is unsettling. 

Zayn tries to let the old black and white film calm his nerves, but a few minutes in Harry twists his head up to look at him. "Why aren't you petting my hair?" he asks with his kitten eyes, which he knows are the most manipulative on the planet. 

"Because you're already half on top of me, Haz," Zayn grumbles, forcing himself to keep a blank face in response to Harry's pout. He will not fall for it, goddammit. 

"But you always pet my curls," Harry points out plaintively, and nuzzles his head up to Zayn's cheek so that he gets a wild faceful of hair. "Feel how soft they are, Zayn." 

"You're getting hair in my mouth," Zayn complains, but Harry keeps obnoxiously rubbing his head against Zayn’s face with a huge grin. "Dammit, fine! Just stop doing that," he grumbles, and Harry pats Zayn's stomach happily. 

"That's a good Zayn," he says approvingly. Zayn rolls his eyes. 

"I'm not a dog, you know. You're the one asking to be pet here." 

"Whatever you say," Harry smirks, settling his head back down and Zayn obligingly raises a hand to rake his fingers through his curls. He doesn't know how Harry gets away with being so manipulative, but then again he doesn't exactly mind twirling locks of his hair around his fingers, pulling them and letting them spring back messily. He experiments with scratching at Harry's scalp, which makes him moan a little into Zayn's neck. Zayn tries not to focus on the throatiness of it. But it's so easy to imagine, in the dark, Harry moaning like that as Zayn kisses him on the underside of his jaw. He wants to discover what else makes him groan out low, pained sighs, where all of his favorite spots are and touch every single one. 

But he won't. He's just petting his best mate's little brother's hair, because all Styles's are half-cat. Gemma does the same thing, if you get her high or drunk enough. And if she doesn't have Harry's lush curls, or the long, lanky body pressed against Zayn, well, that's neither here nor there. 

Zayn's not good at denial. But he's usually better at self-restraint than this, because he's not moving away. To be fair to himself, he's not moving forward either, not bending down to press his lips into those wild curls. Not curving his hand over the back of Harry's neck like he could, tilt his head up for a kiss. So on average, Zayn's probably doing okay. Only sort of being awful. 

Or he he’s doing okay until Harry turns his head so that his lips are hot against the skin of Zayn's neck. It's too sure a motion to be accidental, and Zayn does yelp this time and jumps to his feet, shoving Harry off of him. 

"I should go home," he says, very quickly. 

Harry slowly straightens up from where he had gone sprawling on the couch. His eyes are wide, and Zayn can't tell if it's hurt in them or want, or both. Fuck. He doesn't even know which of them he wants it to be. 

"Or you could stay," Harry suggests, with a quick glance up through his lashes. He manages to look very young and very sexy all at once. With a deliberate motion, he reaches over to stop the movie. "We could not watch a movie."

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. He hadn't wanted it to come to this. 

"Haz..." 

"I'm not a kid anymore." Harry gets up. He's taller than Zayn, not by much, but enough. Enough to be almost exactly what Zayn likes. "I'm _not_."

"I don't want—"

"You do," Harry retorts. It's utterly sure, and it's not like he's wrong. "Don't lie, Zayn, I know when you're lying."

"Gem would kill me," Zayn tries instead. Because that's the worst of it, really. Seventeen, fucking seventeen, and so pretty with it. 

"Gemma's not here." He's moving closer, and Zayn's too torn between wanting to meet him halfway and wanting to retreat and the general refusal to ever retreat to get away. 

"Haz, you know how I decide who I'm going to sleep with?" he attempts gentle, this time. Because he remembers seventeen, so ready to believe everything's a slight against you, and this isn't. This is—he's seventeen. He's Gemma's little brother. He's a kid, except for how he's not. But Zayn does have some rules. 

"How?" Harry pauses an arm's length away, tilts his head curiously. 

"I ask myself if I could tell Gem about it. If I wouldn’t, I don't do it." 

"Then tell her."

“She will actually kill me,” Zayn replies. Harry doesn’t falter, just keeps looking at him, all wide eyes and long limbs and full lips. None of which Zayn should be noticing. So he tries another tack, and makes sure he stays a respectable distance away. “Would you tell your friends?”

That gets a snort. “’Course! Already told Niall I was going for it.”

Great. Now he’s either the evil guy who turns down Harry and humiliates him, or the evil lech who’s taking advantage of a teenager. This would be so much easier if it was just them meeting at a bar or something, and Harry was smiling at him, all innocent but with a hint of wicked, like an angel just waiting to be ruined. Zayn would fucking ruin him then, wouldn’t have thought twice about it. Why does he have to be a good person sometimes?

“Harry,” Zayn says, going for slightly condescending patience. “You get to be the cool kid who fucked a college guy. I end up as the guy who fucked a high schooler. His best friend’s little brother.”

That gets Harry to pause, to look at him for a long, slow moment. It’s like someone poured jello on them, like time itself is stuck in this fog where Zayn should leave but can’t. Doesn’t have the will to move back, nor the heart for forward. 

“Zayn Malik,” Harry says, slowly, which makes no sense. Then he goes on, “Who fucked _Zayn Malik_. Which is just about everyone’s goal in life.” 

Zayn rolls his eyes, starts to reply, but Harry cuts him off. He’s standing very straight, and his chin is tilted, but Zayn knows his tells. Most of this is bravado. “You’re not taking advantage of me, Zayn. I want this, I swear I do, I’ll tell Gem or won’t tell anyone else or whatever you want. But I want this, and I’m a consenting adult, so there’s nothing for you to be ashamed of.”

“Harry—” Harry takes another step closer, presses himself up against Zayn, twines his arms around Zayn’s neck. Fuck. He should leave. Should peel himself off of Harry and go, and not notice the softness of his lips or how his pulse is fluttering at his throat or how good he feels, like he fitz into all the empty spaces Zayn didn’t know he had.

“I want you,” Harry purrs. Zayn can feel the words vibrate through Harry. “If I wasn’t—if we had just met, would you want me?”  
Something about that—about the truth of it, because he would, because if he had met Harry at a party and Harry had flirted like this he would have had him home and in his bed in a heartbeat—has him sighing, a little. Fucking Styles’s. They always get their way.

“You’re telling Gemma,” he states, and Harry’s face lights up, bright enough that Zayn’s as good as blinded. He’d forgotten how lovely Harry was when he smiled like that, like everything good in the world was in front of him.

To deal with it, he reaches up, frames Harry’s face in his hands. “You’re telling Gemma,” he repeats, firmly. “And this is entirely your fault.”

“Yeah, I—”

Zayn cuts him off with a kiss.

He tries to go slow, tries to ease Harry into it—the kid’s only seventeen, who knows what he’s done—but then Harry just fucking melts into him, soft and pliant as Zayn bites at his lower lip. Harry lets his mouth open at that, and Zayn licks into it, humming softly as Harry groans and tries to press closer.

Zayn pulls away from Harry’s mouth, ignores the petulant whine that turns into a muttered, “ _Zayn_ ,” as Zayn trails his lips down Harry’s jaw, nipping and sucking at his neck as Harry tilts his head back to give him better access.

He’s so fucking responsive, is the thing, so keyed up that he’s already more than a little hard against Zayn’s thigh. Zayn remembers seventeen, always ready and wanting, so he’s not surprised when Harry starts to grind against him, clearly desperate for friction.  
But if they’re going to do this, they’re going to do it right. Zayn wants to be able to explore Harry, to find all the hidden parts of him he’s never known before, never even thought about knowing before. He wants to take him apart and put him back together again. 

So he gives Harry’s collar one last bite, then straightens up with a hand on Harry’s hip to calm him down. “Where?” he asks, and Harry’s eyes are already nearly black with lust. 

He has to clear his throat twice before he rasps out, “My bedroom, c’mon.” He lets go of Zayn’s neck to grab onto his wrist, drag him up the stairs.

“Feel like I’m in high school again,” Zayn observes with a grin, as Harry’s fingers dig into his wrist like he wants them to bruise. “Your parents gonna be home tonight?”

“No. Nor Gem, probably.” He glances back over his shoulder as they reach the top of the stairs, grins. “We’re alone all night.”

He’s probably going for seductive, but he’s too busy looking behind him to watch where he’s going so he trips and lets go of Zayn’s arms to windmill frantically. Zayn lunges forward to catch him, grabs onto his hips with both hands and pulling him in to steady him.

“You okay, babe?” Zayn asks, curving around Harry’s back protectively. From this angle, he can see Harry’s blush all down his cheeks and neck.

“Embarrassed,” he mutters, and turns so he can bury his head in Zayn’s neck. “I was gonna be smooth.”

“Hey.” Zayn slides a finger under Harry’s chin, moves his head until Harry doesn’t have a choice but to look at him. If he’s going to do this, he can at least make it good for Harry, teach him some things. “Hey, Harry. I saw you when you were fourteen and got pantsed at your birthday party. I know you’re not smooth. It’s fine.”

If possible, Harry blushes even more. “Forgot about that,” he says, quietly, and glances down and away like he’d turn away again if Zayn didn’t still have a hold on his chin.

“You embarrassed about me seeing your ass?” Zayn teases. He wants Harry smiling again. Harry looking like this, like he did something wrong, makes Zayn feel all sorts of wrong and creepy. “’Cause if things go right, babe, I’ll see a lot more than that tonight.”

That gets a bit of a smile, but not a real one. Zayn slides the hand that was on Harry’s hip down, until it’s on Harry’s ass, and squeezes. Harry makes a noise that’s somewhere between a meep and a groan. “It’s a nice ass,” Zayn keeps murmuring. He lets go of Harry’s face so he can get a grip with both hands, can pull him in so they’re pressed together. “Think I’ll like it.”

That gets him a real smile, Harry glancing up through his lashes. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Zayn agrees, and then Harry’s too cute not to kiss, all bashful and innocent, like he hadn’t been shamelessly coming on to Zayn all night. Like Zayn’s the one doing the seducing here.

It starts out sweet again, but then Harry gets his hands into Zayn’s hair and pulls, like he can’t get enough, and fuck somewhere he learned how to kiss because he’s almost overbalancing Zayn, almost pushing him over and back down the stairs.

Which reminds Zayn, they’re still in the hall. He tightens his grip on Harry, pulls up on him. Harry gets the message like he’d been thinking the same thing, boosts himself up with his arms and wraps his legs around Zayn, swallowing his ‘oof’ of effort in the frantic, desperate kiss.

Zayn responds best he can while walking them to Harry’s room, his fingers kneading into Harry’s ass as Harry tries his best to get even closer. The door’s open, thank god, because Zayn’s not sure how they would deal with the doorknob; instead Zayn just backs Harry through it, then spins and slams Harry back against the door to close it, bracing him between Zayn and the door so he can really get the right leverage to thrust his tongue into Harry’s mouth. Harry’s hips jerk, and he’s making little needy, mewling sounds, breathing out a refrain that sounds like “ _zayn zayn zayn_ ” between kisses.

Zayn’s almost as hard as Harry now, he thinks, with the friction and Harry’s frantic grinding, so he turns around without letting go and drops Harry on the bed. Harry laughs as he tumbles down, grabs Zayn by the collar and pulls him down with him so he lands with a hand on either side of Harry’s head and his legs straddling his waist, swallowing his own laughter in favor of not crauhing Harry.

Harry grins up at him (his sheets are a nice dignified blue, thank god he’s outgrown the dinosaur sheets he had last time Zayn was in here). He’s already starting to look wrecked, his lips swollen, his hair a mess. 

“Can I take your shirt off?” he asks. Zayn can’t exactly say no to that. So he just nods, and his breath catches as Harry grabs at the hem of his t-shirt, pulls it off torturously slowly, his fingers sliding over Zayn’s skin as it comes off.

Zayn’s barely emerged from it before Harry’s scrabbling at his belt, too, and he’s got the buckle undone before Zayn gets a hand over his. Make it good. Fucking seventeen. “Harry,” he says, trying for serious, trying not to notice that there’s a pretty obvious bulge in Harry’s skinny jeans. “Have you done this before?”

“Yeah,” Harry retorts, defensive. “I’m not a kid, I told you. I could give you the best blow job of your life.”

He’s pouting, which should not be as attractive as it is. Moral of Harry Styles, really. “Maybe I’ll hold you to that,” Zayn laughs, and leans down to kiss him again as Harry pulls his belt off, yanks down on his jeans. Zayn lifts himself up accommodatingly, lets Harry pull off his pants until he’s fully naked.

Zayn’s never had any shame about his body, or not since he was in high school and realized that people were finally looking at him for good reasons, so he just sits back on his knees as Harry lifts himself up on one elbow to look. His eyes are wide, and he’s chewing hard on his lower lip.

“Like what you see?” he grins, and Harry wrinkles his nose at him as he reaches out, traces the tattoo over Zayn’s collarbone.

“You’ve more tattoos since last summer,” he says. His finger moves over the wings to circle around the lips, then down from there, catching over Zayn’s nipple so he groans a little, then down his chest to his navel, down the strip of hair to where Zayn’s cock is hard against his stomach.

He touches that too, more experimentally than anything, and Zayn bites back another groan. Usually he’s the one who likes to tease, fucking hell.  
Finally, finally, Harry looks back up at Zayn’s face. “You’re beautiful,” he says, simply. Zayn has to close his eyes against the sincerity of it. “Always known it,” Harry goes on, quietly. Somehow the urgency has slowed, with his voice thick as honey dripping from a spoon. “But seeing you…”

Zayn opens his eyes. He can’t deal with that right now, with the earnestness of Harry, the way he’s looking at him a bit like he hung the stars.

“You’re not too bad yourself,” he teases instead, giving Harry his best come-hither smirk. It works, as it always does; Harry flushes and squirms. Laughter is the best remedy to sentiment. “But you’re also wearing too many clothes.”

“First time anyone’s ever told me that,” Harry giggles, and sits up so Zayn can strip his shirt off as well. He’s good at getting naked—shouldn’t be surprised, he’d always been a bit of a nudist, wandering around in his pants day and night—and pretty soon they’re back on the bed, rutting against each other as Zayn presses kisses into the skin of his chest. 

He starts working his way down, over the bit of pudge that is all that remains of his baby fat, over the hint of muscles that’s coming in to replace it. He bypasses Harry’s dick, chuckling at the put off moan that elicits, so he can bite at Harry’s thighs, his fingers curling into the sensitive skin at the back of Harry’s knees so they jerk instinctively.

Harry’s an incoherent bundle of “Zayn” and “please” and “more” as Zayn moves to lick up his dick. His hips jerk, enough that he would hit Zayn in the face if he didn’t already have a hand anchoring Harry down. The head of Harry’s cock is wet with pre-cum, the shaft swollen and clearly achingly hard.

So Zayn takes it in his mouth, swirls his tongue around the head, spreading out the wetness there as he hums at Harry’s “Fuck!”

It’s probably not the best blow job Zayn’s ever given, too hurried, and frankly Harry’s messing up his technique with how squirmy he is, but he makes up for it by the sheer look of him, when Zayn glances up. His cheeks are flushed a bright, bright red, brighter because his hair is stuck to his forehead in sweaty clumps, and he’s got his eyes screwed up like it’s taking all his concentration not to come right now. It probably is, seventeen and all, so Zayn takes pity on him.

He goes deeper, taking as much of Harry in as he can, then just goes that little bit deeper too so that it hurts just right, and sucks as hard as he can. Harry’s hips lift off the bed, and “fuck Zayn, I’m gonna—” so Zayn pulls off with a loud slurp, finishes him with his hand so he’s coming in wet spurts into Zayn’s fist.

Harry collapses back into the bed, his eyes still shut tight. He’s so pretty like this, made such lovely sounds, that Zayn’s getting pretty desperate himself, but he also looks young, somehow, despite what Zayn just did, so Zayn moves back up his body, nudges at his cheek with his nose.

“Hey, babe,” he says, softly. “You okay?”

“Mph,” is the very coherent reply. Zayn chuckles.

“No regrets?”

Harry opens his eyes at that. “Zayn, I’ve wanted you since I knew what it was to want someone,” he says, and he doesn’t sound young anymore. He sounds old and lazy, post-orgasm bliss settling into his skin. Zayn can’t help reaching down, curling one hand around his own cock just to relieve some of the pressure. “Pretty sure that was the best however many minutes of my life.”

It catches in Zayn’s throat, that Harry’s wanted him so long, that it meant that much to Harry. He shakes his head, a little. “Setting the bar pretty low there, Haz,” he says instead, to break the tension. To drive away that pressure. 

“Don’t think so,” Harry counters. He lifts his head to give Zayn a long, lazy kiss, that doesn’t do anything to help Zayn’s nearly-painfully hard dick. Zayn starts to fist himself in earnest then, moving faster so that his knuckles brushed against Harry’s thigh.

Harry glances down, then, “Oh.” He grins, loose and easy, and it’s like the tension was never there at all. “Need some help with that?”

“If it wouldn’t be a bother,” Zayn retorts, because Harry is a little brat sometimes, and he knows it. He should have known he’d be a brat during sex too.

Harry slides his hand roughly down Zayn’s torso—then stops at his belly button. Zayn makes a sound he thinks is closer to a growl than anything else.

“Or,” Harry says, slowly, chewing on his lip again. Zayn wants to bite into the spots he bit, to dig in until his lips are swollen and red with it. “You could fuck me.”

He might black out at that. He certainly loses his breath, at the thought of it, at the sudden visceral imagination of thrusting into Harry, of how tight and good Harry would feel around him.

“You done that before?” he forces out, between clenched teeth. Fucking hell. He is far too nice a guy.

“Yes.” He meets Zayn’s gaze squarely, then reaches down to squeeze at Zayn’s dick. Zayn’s hips buck helplessly, but he knows Harry. He knows when he’s lying, even though the haze of lust.

“Harry.”

“No,” Harry amends, “Or, not—like, myself? My fingers? But no one else.” Zayn nods, opens his mouth to speak, but Harry forges on, faster than usual, “But I want you to! I want—you should do it, it should be you, it’s supposed to be you, that’s what I want—”

He might black out again, he’s not sure. He does drop his head so his forehead is resting against Harry’s for a second, trying to get his thoughts in order. 

Then he lifts his head back up, so he can look at Harry, all cheeky, hopeful grin and big green eyes. Fuck his life. “Not something you should decide spur of the moment, Harry.”

“It’s not—”

“If it happens, it should be, like, with someone you trust and are comfortable with and know is safe and it should be—not like this.” He thinks of his own first, some guy who he thought was the one but turned out to be a jerk with an admittedly nice set of muscles, who fucked him in the backseat of his car. It was good enough, hot enough even though it hurt, but he thinks of what it could have been too, slow and gentle and beautiful (and maybe he’s a sap), and knows—fuck, he knows he’s right. “So no, Harry. Not gonna fuck you tonight.”

“Fine.” Harry huffs out a breath, but Zayn’s always found it’s hard to be mad at someone after they’ve given you a blowjob. “Can I help you out then?”

That Zayn’ll take, thank the bloody damn lord, and he buries his face in Harry’s shoulder and bites down into the skin there as Harry jerks him off, fast and rough and a bit uncoordinated but enthusiastic enough to make up for it. He comes, muffling his bitten off swearing into Harry’s neck, then rolls onto his side and collapses next to him.

They breathe, for a moment, long, hoarse breaths into the quiet of the house, as Zayn tries desperately to stave off the impending doom he knows is coming now that the endorphins are dying down. To help, he rolls over, grabs some dirty t-shirt to clean themselves off with. But it doesn’t distract. Holy shit, Gemma’s going to kill him. He’s going to kill him. He’ll have to run away and never come home again, and then Safaa will be mad. What if Harry has regrets? What if he second guesses himself and doesn’t tell Gem? What if Zayn can’t forget what he sounded like when he came, moaning Zayn’s name, and the way he had looked at Zayn after, like Zayn was the only thing holding him together? What if—

“I trust you,” Harry says, suddenly, apropos of nothing. “I’ve known you since I was ten. And I’m comfortable with you, and no one in the world makes me feel safer than you, Zayn. No one.” He turns onto his side, nuzzles into Zayn so he can nip at the place where his neck meets his shoulder. “Just saying. If you wanted.”

Zayn blames the post-orgasm haze, and the near panic attack he’s having, and the curls that get into his face when he tilts his head to look at Harry, his arm moving to circle him, for what he says. “Yeah, maybe.” 

He can feel Harry’s grin spread across his skin, and the miniature little happy dance he does even though he’s lying down. “But you’re still telling Gem.”

**Author's Note:**

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